Chapter 3

Beauty and Submission

On the chat app, Ernie and Nels exchange messages, May 8th.

The_Editor: A not bad draft. Several decent parts. 

The_Editor: You plan on going to the BART tonight as they asked of you?

Nels_NYcontrib: yes. I’ll def do that. I’ve been hitting the gym real hard to get ripped and ready to go. To be super efficient as investigator.

The_Editor: That’s the right attitude! Attaboy!

The_Editor: Two editorial points.

The_Editor: Remember your audience. You are not trying to get published in the fancy magazines, so dial back on the fancy talk. Most of our readers think Apollo is about going to the moon or at least faking it, and ‘pulchritudinous’ sounds like an STD to Middle America. So write simply and directly, don’t hit the thesaurus too hard. Dumb it down.

Nels_NYcontrib: srsly! A bit of flexing is good. This is for the ages, not the cheap forgettable stuff. 

Nels_NYcontrib: I’m about to blow the lid off epic sexual corruption, or whatevs. 

The_Editor: Maybe, but this could have been a hook-up, right? By gay standards, wasn’t this standard fare, so to speak?

The_Editor: Say a medical doctor who likes to finger a young impressionable guy in the butthole. Wouldn’t be the first, I expect. We could dig a bit and find that doctor, and turn this into a story of medical malpractice and sexual deception.

Nels_NYcontrib: Dude it’s real. These guys are literally on a different level. It was a test. 

Nels_NYcontrib: It hasn’t been a week yet and I’ve made more progress than Woodward and Bernstein did in over a month. Tonight will get tougher I bet. Full of testosterone and moaning surrender. I must perform. This will take fat journalism skilz.

Nels_NYcontrib: Believe me. This is huge, I feel it deep within me. 

The_Editor: So second editorial point. We may have to edit out some of the filthiest gay stuff. Keep it coming though. I need it for context. But before publication, I will edit it a bit so we don’t get sued because a high-cholesterol reader had an aneurysm while reading about ‘moaning surrender’ and such.

Nels_NYcontrib: I will not have my integrity violated. Do NOT censor me. I have free speech rights and that stuff. Pulitzers require a personal and confessional style, not some boomer ‘objective’ style. I’ve levelled up.

The_Editor: We can debate that later. This isn’t published anyway until I know where it goes. 

The_Editor: I will put an intern on background research of Doctor Matthew because dirty medical doctors and prostate exams have good click-through rates. Even better if he also has donated to political campaigns.

The_Editor: Just imagine the lead… when he isn’t shaking hands with the mayor, Doctor Matthew is knuckles deep inside the fresh-faced sons of the New York City elites, twiddling with their butthole G spots ‘for science’ he tells them. 

Nels_NYcontrib: stfu he is not like that! He is different. The Doctor is insightful, like Spanish Inquisition-level insightful. He probed for a greater purpose.

The_Editor: We’ll see. It’s my call to make, so you worry your little head with delivering the content, nothing else.

The_Editor: Anyways, you have an ass to wash, wax and lube up, or whatever you do. I expect another draft in a few days. Don’t be late and remember the guidelines. You are my favourite intern, normally easy to edit and receptive to guidance. Stay that way.

Draft authored by Nels on May 9th, recovered from digital device, NYPD evidence archive number B-55-2×54-3

I was not the only one in the BART who perked up when Buck (that moniker seemed better than ever) entered the bar, exactly at 8.00 pm. Three other young men stood up, in attention as it were, when the big man’s physical presence was announced by his heavy feet landing on the weathered wooden floorboards. I should have known the purpose of these boys. Their beauty was well above the New York City average, their demeanour somewhat melancholy and they all were within the unfashionable BART — men like me, wayward men like those who had vanished.

“Punctual. Good. Follow.”

Buck had not grown more verbose since I last saw and felt him. He did not have to. We all complied, this entourage of handsome young men, as we followed Buck through narrow corridors into a back room — another windowless affair, with the defiantly non-trendy swords, oaks and castles part of the interior decor. 

An inescapable truth of our universe is that it tends towards ever greater entropy. In the aggregate, more unordered arrangements and less intricate designs are our civilizational doom. Everything eventually turns to mush. However, locally, effort and energy exercised by something or someone can make order, structure and beauty arise for a few, for a time. 

Conversely, order and structure, whatever their scope and kind, are signs of something or someone potent and forceful at work. 

It was these universals that stirred in my mind as I observed the very particular kind of order, structure and beauty I found myself part of — the particularity of style, the oddity of designs, and the certainty of ritual, were all hallmarks of a potent force that imposed his will, knowledge and schemes onto this exclusive corner of the universe. I was a creature of sorts in a ritual, not simply a piece of receptive meat in a quick run-of-the-mill hookup. 

But a ritual in service of what? The agent of my present condition could only be a strong man’s will. But which man? 

For all the profound uncertainties, one matter that did not confound me, nor my handsome melancholy fellows, was that the first command of the evening ritual was nudity — total and complete butt-nakedness, as it were. We all complied and our fit, perky bodies were yet again revealed. The certainty of small things was oddly pleasing.

Doctor Matthew was also present, his sly smile as enigmatic as ever, his gaze more penetrating than an oversized dildo, his sartorial choice faultless and brimming with masculine rigour, and his elegant tall frame securely seated in an opulent chesterfield leather armchair, which creaked hauntingly as he leaned forward to survey the precious quadruple of firm, flawless asses, au naturel. I wager he felt a phantom grip of tight buttholes around his surgically precise fingers. By whatever esoteric chain of psychological instincts, his presence made me feel at ease. My dick aimed a tad further skywards.

A third man was also present — a new mystery member of the cast of men. Deep blue robes with golden ornamental embroidery covered his body, the impressive garment wrapped over a sturdy belly. Bold and scarred head, a cleft lip, a crooked nose, and one eye a bit larger than the other — his face was ill-favoured, as the Great Bard might have put it. 

Apart from that characterization, I have little more to say, because he remained at the sidelines throughout the entire evening, from where he observed, took notes, and on rare occasions licked his lips, like a sweaty hungry hippopotamus. Whatever his purpose, he fulfilled it without a single caress, squeeze or wet kiss of naked body parts. Lord Hippo, as I named him, was no doubt part of the mysterious ritual for a reason — the majestic will, looming over us, would not have put Lord Hippo here without a cause. 

From my vantage point, as the intrepid undercover reporter, my ass bared for truth, this only added further layers to the mystery I was selflessly set to expose. My well-honed journalistic intuition told me, though, that I had not seen the last of Lord Hippo.

The cool sensation of premium lubricant applied to my ass was how the next stage announced itself. We, the four captured preys, had been commanded onto our hands and knees, legs spread wide, head bowed down in submission, and in that posture, we felt the skilled, commanding, precise and uncompromising touch that we had come to expect from Buck’s and Doctor Matthew’s coordinated handiwork in and around our erogenous zones. Buck’s thick fingers applied the lubricant a bit deeper inside us, just past the tight grip, and the Doctor squeezed our balls as he spread the lube around the holes that we served up. 

The Doctor mumbled a few encouraging words when he, without exception, noted that we had refrained from sexual release the last few days. “Preserving yourself for the ritual, as good boys do”, the Doctor said and patted my butt and balls lovingly. Lord Hippo put some ink in his large leather-bound notebook.

We moaned as one. From our pitch and minor squirms of hips and torso, we knew exactly how good all the others in the quadruple felt in that very moment when Buck and the Doctor inserted some smooth plug inside the perky, hairless butts our lion brothers had assumed command over. Whatever the design of the objects which opened us, and pressed and gently vibrated inside us, it hit all the right places. It was not necessarily the pure mechanics of it all, rather it was at least as much the sense of trust and love a set of experienced, powerful and truly manly hands engendered in our minds. 

The lion brothers wiggled, pushed and pulled on the objects and our butts responded. Our breathing turned more rapid. So too did Buck’s and the Doctor’s to our delight — it was our sexual qualities and performance as ready and able bottom men that made the two lion brothers noticeably horny.

The reader may wonder why I switched to the plural pronoun “we”. This is not an attempt to obscure or deconstruct the genders involved. We were all undoubtedly men — stout-hearted, gutsy men, full of fun, spunk and testosterone — despite what the blockhead high school bullies may have had to say on the matter. 

No, rather it is what I think best captures the both tangible and spiritual bond we men on the bottom formed as we were naked together, our skin and muscles in sweaty contact, and our asses expertly stimulated, probed and edged by the two men of power. At least it feels thus, as I sit in my chambers again, stark naked to recall the evening better, my butt adorably reddened and sore, and write these words of truth, love and admiration. 

There was Ken. Short, smooth alabaster skin, kind eyes and high cheekbones, and with ancestry from somewhere in the proverbial borderlands between East Asia and Southeast Asia. His buttocks formed an amazing little bubble butt thanks to years of diligent badminton practice, and when Buck’s palm landed on said creation, it made that full spectrum sound of a well-received boy spanking. 

There was Victor. Curly dark brown hair, long eyelashes and naturally pink and full lips, a superb exemplar of Latin ancestry. His buttocks formed a playful and glossy booty of that glorious kind that never quite can fit inside a pair of jeans, rather it insists on creating a gamesome little ass crack above the waistline. 

And there was Travis. A picture-perfect himbo, by all appearances, with a great all-round physique, tropical ocean blue eyes, of ancestry only centuries of wild fucking all around Europe, north of the Alps, could produce. His buttocks were exquisitely artful as if a Renaissance statue had come alive with a devilish mission to drive older men mad with desire. In fact, Travis was a fashion model — I recognized his face and ass from advertisements of some mid-level underwear brand. He even had that detached model attitude, which mimicry and career ambition install in beautiful men somewhere on the conveyor belt between the oversaturated flirtatious Instagram posts and the NYC/LA catwalks.

Alas, this was not the corner of the world that rewarded that attitude — here the opposite was true. Buck revealed that fact, harshly and without pity, to sweet Travis’ tearful pleadings. 

But I am getting ahead of myself. The nocturnal events of the windowless place have not yet arrived at the point of tragedy. 

On our hands and knees in said place, we were all hot, moaning and on the brink of hands-free orgasms when Buck and the Doctor removed the delicious butt stimulations. Another method of ass work commenced instead, the most primordial one of our species, which, I bet, mattered as much to our species’ ascent to civilization as fire, the flint axe or the wheel. 

I refer of course to good, firm, big man handed, rock-solid spanking of bare butt cheeks.

It was Victor who first found himself on Buck’s knee. One arm was held firmly behind Victor’s back, his dick and balls angled backwards, his booty upwards, and his legs slightly parted by how the handsome man had been positioned on Buck’s muscular thigh and hard knee. Us remaining three boys stood on our knees and watched what happened, both scared and excited since we knew in our hearts that Victor’s whimpering was soon to be ours to vocalize under Buck’s exacting palm and power.

Victor’s booty rang with the sounds of the spanking, his lips parted to emit primal sounds of pain, love and submission. The buttocks bounced and wobbled, and soon they began to shine with a rosy hue and small goose bumps appeared. Buck’s aim was good. He explored the full butt surface, he even gave the still lubricated hole, buried in the deep valley of Victor’s meaty cheeks, a few slaps with his finger. It was a sight to behold. Doctor Matthew pressed the hard dicks of us three observers and noted our collective arousal. “Soon your turn to be revealed…” the Doctor whispered and pinched my penis that bobbed upwards.

Ken was next — a natural-born bottom if there ever was one. Buck’s approach was identical to what Victor had been subjected to. Ken’s badminton butt responded exceptionally well, and sweet Ken squirmed on top of the warm muscular thigh as his butt began to glow from the spanking. It was not squirming meant to escape the palm, though. No, far more akin to the kitten that burrows itself in the protective fur of his superior. And no more than a minute had passed until this particular kitten was lost in feelings of primal submission, from which depths moans and sobs emerged of joyful abandonment of all polite pretence and fabricated falsities we had been forced to wear in the modern masquerade of the outside world. Ken felt secure, certain and truly happy for the first time in a very long while. The pre-cum was but one of many signs of this soulful fact.

I ask again that the skeptical reader suspends judgment and put doubt aside. The state of mind of both Victor and Ken were known to me — fully, unambiguously and intensely. It is that bond I spoke of before. Ken was more than yet another individual in this world. He and I were persons in this together in a profound way — we were melded together somehow, revealed to the other, the boundaries of subjects fraying.

This is also the reason I do not have to describe my turn on Buck’s knee and under his calloused palm because what I felt and what I did were exactly what my two brothers before me felt and did in body and mind. We submitted. Completely. 

What new I can add, as I write these lines in my humble apartment, just as dreary and decayed as the low and greedy landlords of this city love to force upon the kind and gentle, is that I still felt Buck and the Doctor. Their secure presence was as real as ever. I felt as if Buck’s palm still rested on my sore ass, where it reminded me of my place, where it comforted me. I felt the Doctor’s embrace, the soothing ointment applied and the soothing words whispered, as he held me after Buck had nodded in approval and allowed me to climb off his knee. They were still with me. And oddly enough, Lord Hippo’s misshapen face did not leave my mind entirely either. I wish I knew what Lord Hippo wrote down in his mighty book as Doctor Matthew kissed my radiating buttocks and whispered “These are the beautiful gifts we shall present.”

Sadly, Travis is not feeling any of this wherever he rests in sadness and sorrow in the city right now. 

He did not relinquish his pretences, falsities and mask — they had been welded onto his very being. Though he too squirmed and whimpered, he was playing a role, acting by some social script, as Buck administered his spanking. 

Victor, Ken and I looked on with concern, as Buck adjusted his approach and put those precious butt cheeks through a different, even sterner treatment with an even rosier hue as a consequence. But despite that, Travis could not stop acting, no matter how much he wanted to. His moans and utterances were polluted by performative sensibilities and false beliefs of what he was meant to do and meant to be. He could not be fully revealed.

“Dress. Then leave.”

That was the judgement Buck pronounced as he pushed Travis’s exquisite nude body off his knee. Travis pleaded and sobbed. “I promise to be good, I need this, again, try again, take my ass, I will be good’” but the judgement had been rendered and with wet eyes and ass veiled by expensive brand name fabric, Travis left the windowless room to return to the bland glass, asphalt and concrete that breathed their malodorous fumes outside the doors to the BART. 

“You are able enough to be elevated. Not only beauty, but genuine submission have placed you on the good path.” Thus spoke Doctor Matthew. “Your respite for the next days before we shall transport you again,” the Doctor said and pointed to Buck, who unzipped his pants and let his manhood swing out, heavy, life-giving yet also deadly. 

We three, who remained after the ancient scrutiny we had been subjected to, were quick to absorb the man’s nourishment and power. For a moment, as I kissed the thick shaft and waited for Ken to release his eager grip on the tip, I wondered what had my ass and submission granted me passage to — was I to worry that so many men before me had vanished as they ventured on this very path? Being deep undercover is not for the feeble — it takes balls.

I put these concerns aside, however, as Ken turned to me, all smiles, and with his hand directed Buck’s big nice dick to my mouth, as Victor had done before him in a show of true bottom solidarity. We felt oddly safe, despite the powerful unknowns that loomed ahead. A mighty and throbbing dick pushing and prodding inside the mouth of a boy has been known to have that effect.

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